He’s taller than I am and I have to squint, keep the light raking over his skin, and strain against the glare. The room’s hot, and I rip the sweat out of my eyes with the heel of my hand, then narrow my eyes again.

I don’t need to tell you of the epic failure I had in implementing my plan over the weekend, right? Of course not. You knew that before you came over. You knew I wouldn’t make it. Heck, you might have even known before the weekend.

Well, here we go. This is it. The big weekend, where I tackle trying to get back on the writing horse. Where I try to see whether my plants will right the list in the ship of my story enough to make me want to sail it again.

If it works, it’ll be a launch point toward the story I originally planned to tell. If it doesn’t…well, I guess it’s just more of the same.